


1 Corinthians 13

by boom_slap



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Drinking, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Inaccurate Christianity, M/M, One Shot, Romance, Tumblr Prompt, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24493072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap
Summary: "We would like to cordially invite you to share in our joy, it says in elegant, golden letters. Underneath, there is a code - date and place, no doubt. And finally, at the bottom of the page, two letters:B, in beautiful calligraphy, and a messily scribbledP."The prompt was: Belermo wedding!!!
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 34
Kudos: 178





	1 Corinthians 13

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kikimay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kikimay/gifts).



> You should all thank Kikimay who gave me this prompt; it was supposed to be a drabble but OH WELL HAVE FUN

The calm, lovely routine is something Raquel has been craving for years. After a failed marriage, the Mint heist, running away to Palawan and the absolute horror that the Bank heist had been, it has taken her and Sergio years to work through the trauma.

The death of her mother did not help.

It’s been ten years since the Bank and they are finally happy. It doesn’t mean that it gets boring; watching Paula bring boyfriends to the house is actually extremely amusing considering Sergio goes into investigation mode every single time it happens.

“She got another love letter,” Sergio rolls his eyes, walking into the kitchen. Raquel smiles into her cup of coffee and reaches for the beige envelope.

Sergio raises an eyebrow at her.

“Violating privacy?”

“No, I’m keeping you from doing so,” she chuckles and puts the coffee down before snatching the letter from her husband’s hand. She takes a look at it. “Golden edges. How classy.”

She leaves the envelope in Paula’s room and soon forgets about it.

They’re already having dinner when Paula comes back home and goes to open the letter. She comes back into the dining room with the widest smile.

“That’s,” she waves the piece of paper in front of them, “for all three of us, actually. It’s a _wedding invitation_.”

Raquel and Sergio look at each other in confusion; she can see him doing the very same thing she is, which is counting out the weddings of their whole dysfunctional, pathological little family that they’ve attended.

“...No _way_ ,” she says. Sergio’s gaze snaps back to Paula, his eyes wide. Paula is almost shaking with laughter as she drops the letter onto the table.

 _We would like to cordially invite you to share in our joy,_ it says in elegant, golden letters. Underneath, there is a code - date and place, no doubt. And finally, at the bottom of the page, two letters: _B_ , in beautiful calligraphy, and a messily scribbled _P_.

“I hate them so much,” Sergio says as they stand in front of the monastery. To be honest, Raquel isn’t surprised at all. Considering their obsession with artistry, it’s only right that the two assholes want to get married in a place where they’ve created their masterplan, the thing that bound them together like nothing else has.

“This is just _screaming_ Bram Stoker to me,” Paula mutters under her breath. As they enter the old complex, though, Raquel’s jaw nearly drops. It has been _renovated_. The place still holds it's dark charm, but every stone looks like it’s been polished. Everything is clean, _luxurious_ , filled with works of art, beautiful carpets, glittering chandeliers. To top it off, they are greeted by a smartly dressed butler who hands them each a glass of wine.

“This is fucking unbelievable,” Sergio looks as if he’s in pain. Raquel understands; the level of ridiculousness is unbearable.

“It is, isn’t it?” they hear a familiar voice and they turn around to see Tokio at the end of the corridor. She grins and runs to hug first Sergio, then Raquel, and even Paula.

Raquel has to admit that Tokio ages beautifully. There are wrinkles around her eyes, though, but that only makes her look somewhat… softer. Nicer.

“Come on. Everyone is already in the courtyard,” Tokio says and then rolls her eyes. “ _Almost_ everyone, I mean. The two bastards haven’t shown up yet. I’m starting to think they may have just ratted us all to the Interpol.”

They all haven’t seen each others for almost four years, busy with their lives, and Raquel can’t believe how much both Cincinnati and Ibiza have grown. Bogotá is a little bit thinner than he was the last time and Nairobi laughs in joy when Raquel says it out loud.

“I’m making him stay off the bad cholesterol, I won’t have him die of a heart attack on me,” she grins and pats the man’s belly. Bogotá groans and points to the food on the table.

“Let me eat whatever, woman, _please_ , just for the time being.”

“No,” Nairobi stabs him in the ribs with her long finger and Sergio shakes his head at them with a fond smile.

It’s so _weird._ Marsella’s moustache is grey now, Río finally looks somewhat like an adult, Denver’s features are softer and Sergio says he looks a little more like Moscú.

“Soon,” Helsinki raises his beer bottle in Denver’s direction. “You’re going to look like me and Bogotá.”

“Gods, no!” Denver actually seems terrified, bless his soul.

They have some time to catch up and get pleasantly buzzed on various beverages before finally, Estocolmo looks up the stairs lined with candles and lets out a gasp.

“Berlín! Palermo!”

Raquel follows her gaze and nearly chokes.

Of course they are standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at them like kings or emperors would look down at peasants. Of course they are dressed in madly expensive, ridiculous fucking clothes - Andrés in one of his velvet suits, Martín in a turtleneck and dress pants. _Of course_ they are posing as if they were in a GQ photoshoot, with the way they lean oh so _casually_ against one another, heads tilted slightly upwards and to the side, eyes narrowed, Andrés’ hand resting easily on Martín’s waist.

There is one detail that makes Raquel bend over with laughter: in Martín’s arms, there’s some furry, ginger creature with a despicable flat face; a huge persian cat.

“Welcome, friends,” Andrés says in his deep, serious voice, “to the best wedding weekend of your entire lives.”

There’s some booing, some laughter, and Martín is the first out of the two to break into a huge grin. He hands the dreadful monster of a cat to his boyfriend - his _fiancé_ \- and runs down the stairs to throw himself at Helsinki.

Andrés looks scandalized.

“Are you sure _you_ are the one getting married to him?” Río raises an eyebrow at him and Andrés scoffs, walking down the stairs.

“Of course I am, he’s only temporarily losing his mind.”

Sergio is already smiling at the sight of his brother and he gets to his feet to hug him, but-

“ _Jesús!_ ” he yells and jumps back as the cat in Andrés’ arms hisses at him. Martín seems to immediately materialize back at Andrés’ side, frowning at Sergio.

“Careful! He is a very delicate creature,” he says, his tone full of offense.

“Deli-... It’s possessed!” Sergio snaps and Raquel has to lean against Nairobi from how hard she’s laughing. Nairobi is wiping at her eyes as well.

“What’s his name, though?” she asks. “Milán? Córdoba? Hamburgo?”

“Cuddles,” Andrés and Martín say in unison, stone-faced.

Nairobi hides her face in her hands.

“I can’t handle this,” she groans. “Let the monstrosity go so that I can hug you both.”

Andrés sends her a lopsided smile before setting the cat - _Cuddles_ , Raquel remembers and shakes with laughter yet again - down on the grass. It immediately starts rubbing against Andrés legs and Martín crouches down to run a hand over its soft fur. Nairobi smirks at him as she steps closer.

“I don’t know why you needed a cat since you already have Palermo,” she says and gives Andrés a short, but warm hug. He laughs and his gaze meets Martín’s as he looks down. Gently, he puts a hand in his hair, pulls him closer so that Martín has to lean against the side of his leg. He does so with a wide grin, nuzzles Andrés’ thigh for a moment and then gets back up.

“You are so incredibly fucked up,” is what Marsella says, sipping on his drink, as Nairobi gives a small hug to Martín as well.

Once they’ve greeted everyone, their hosts finally sit among them. Cuddles is wandering under the table, occasionally attacking the feet of a random victim. It even bites at Marsella’s ankle, which proves that it’s not an animal, but some godless demon Andrés and Martín must’ve summoned from the depths of hell.

As for the two of them, they’re quite a sight; being Sergio’s girlfriend and then wife, Raquel has had to deal with them a whole lot more than the others. She got used to calling them by their actual names when they’ve visited her and Sergio. First, because Sergio called them that. Second, because for a whole week she could hear the _Andrés_ and _Martín_ being moaned, whimpered and groaned every single night. Her brain is honestly still scarred from that.

The first time she’d seen them together, they were already as if attached at the hip. They made her think of a spectacle she once saw on the streets of Madrid - two dancers moving in perfect sync in front of a false mirror.

With every instance she’d seen them after the heist, the connection only seemed to grow stronger. Even when they fought, it looked as if both of them were the match, the spark and the flame all at the same time.

She’d been sure they were meant to burn out at some point, so it’s bizarre to see them with grey strands in their hair, with deeper wrinkles on their faces, still being disgustingly, unchangeably enamored with each other. _It’s the narcissism_ , she thinks, _it’s because they’re so similar._

“Why now?” she asks finally. She knows she voiced everyone’s question when every head at the table turns in their direction.

Andrés leans back in his chair, stroking up and down the back of Martín’s neck with one finger.

“Well, I’ve prepared the perfect proposal about a year after the heist… “

“... which I then refused.”

“So I’ve tried again, went bigger that time, two years later.”

“And I said _no_.”

“As they say, eight time’s the charm,” Andrés grins, showing off his teeth, ignoring Denver’s confused little “do they?” at which Estocolmo gently shakes her head. “The final proposal was absolutely perfect. You know, smoking jackets, beautiful music, champagne. Very classy. Not overdone.”

Raquel raises an eyebrow at that and Martín smirks.

“He’s right, of course. It was perfect.”

Two hours later, Martín, Raquel and Nairobi all sneak out for a cigarette.

“Want to know what it was really like?” Martín asks as he takes a drag and Raquel exchanges a look with Nairobi, already grinning.

“Sure.”

He blows out the smoke, tilting his head back.

“The jackets were hanging in the closet because we were too lazy to actually go out, we played the music from the old recorder, got absolutely hammered on two bottles of champagne, and we were in bed, in our pyjamas, not even having sex, just talking. Then he started sobbing and told me he’d never been so happy,” he smiles softly. “I refused him before, because I wanted to be _sure_ he wouldn’t get bored. Now I am.”

They both stare at him. Finally, Nairobi goes “awww” and gives him a hug that for once, he accepts without any quips about personal space.

“Of course,” Martín adds, “all of the information I’ve just disclosed to you is a strictly confidential cigarette-break confession. If he knew, we would all be dead.”

Back at the table, Andrés immediately pulls Martín into his lap. Raquel watches from the corner of her eye as he sniffs, frowns and then banters with his fiancé, so quietly it’s impossible to overhear. It ends in a messy kiss, though, so Raquel dares to believe Andrés doesn’t mind Martín’s occasional smoking as much as he claims to.

There’s a discussion going on at the other side of the table and it gets so heated that they all turn to look. Bogotá is standing up, pointing his finger in Denver’s face.

“Ibiza is younger, it’s only right!”

“Exactly, he’s younger!” Denver snaps, folding his arms over his chest. “Cincinnati has known them for a longer time! You’re not making any sense.”

“None of you are,” Andrés speaks, scoffing. “What are you even fighting about?”

“Whether it’s Ibiza or Cincinnati who should be the ring bearer.”

“We’re not letting any of your spawn bear the rings, no fucking way,” Martín says immediately and Andrés nods.

Both Bogotá and Denver gasp at that.

“ _What_? Then who’s gonna do it?”

“Well, Cuddles, of course,” Andrés says calmly as if it were obvious, while Martín pulls the ginger monstrosity from under the table and hugs it. It honestly amazes Raquel that Cuddles doesn’t try to tear his face off.

“You’re going to have your _cat_ be the ring bearer?!” Denver yells.

“He’s the closest family we have,” Andrés smiles softly and leans over to press a kiss to the cat’s annoyed flat face.

Sergio inhales sharply and clears his throat.

“I’m literally your brother.”

“Sorry, did you hear someone?” Martín asks innocently.

“I could swear the cat can talk sometimes," Andrés says, his eyes comically wide. 

Raquel glances at Sergio and chuckles at the scandalized look on his face. Andrés stops poking at one of Cuddles’ paws and looks up at him before breaking out in a huge grin.

“Come on, _hermanito,_ I was joking! Besides,” he gets to his feet and walks over to Sergio, “I want to ask you to be my best man.”

He places a hand on his shoulder and Sergio smiles up at him, albeit somewhat begrudgingly.

“Martín won’t be able to assume the role this time,” Andrés grins and both Sergio and Martín groan, rolling their eyes.

“What about you, Palermo?” Río asks and Martín gently moves Cuddles away from his lap before he basically turns into a cat himself, jumping at Helsinki.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he asks and looks up at the other man, hugging his thick neck. “Please?”

Helsinki gives him a warm smile and pats his head.

“Of course,” he says and then raises his arms in surrender as Andrés pries Martín off of him.

“You have a _fiancé_ ,” Andrés growls and Raquel turns his gaze away just in time to avoid seeing them make out, but the sounds of smacking and sucking reach her ears anyway, as well as Tokio’s groan of disgust.

“We have to stay drunk all weekend to survive this,” Sergio sighs and Martín pulls away from Andrés to grin at him.

“Speaking of,” he says. “Tonight, we’re throwing the bachelors’ parties.”

Estocolmo frowns.

“Separate?”

“Yes, we decided to have a day and a half without sex so that we can break the bed on our wedding night,” Martín explains, clearly proud of the idea.

“Wait, you guys are having sex on a daily basis?“ Denver stares at them, his eyes wide. Andrés clicks his tongue.

“You don’t? That’s so sad.”

Before Denver can answer, Nairobi chimes in:

“How are you going to throw two separate parties? Who’s going to which?”

Andrés gives her a wide grin.

“You’re going to be drawing lots.”

They go to their old classroom, the chapel, to draw the lots. As they enter, Raquel notices two things: first, the place is way more cozy than the last time; second, the portrait of Andrés has been redone. Martín is in it too, now, sitting behind his lover, his hand on the other man’s shoulder. She smirks. The ever-faithful companion has finally gotten his recognition.

They draw tiny pieces of paper with either a _B_ or a _P_ on them and Martín writes the outcome on the chalkboard. When he’s done, he stares at it for a moment before turning to Andrés.

“Yeah, no, we haven’t exactly thought this through.”

The board states as follows: _Palermo - Professor, Bogotá, Tokio, Estocolmo, Lisboa_ ; _Berlín - Nairobi, Marsella, Río, Denver, Helsinki_.

“Why,” Paula speaks up, frowning, “am I not there again?”

“Because you’re a kid,” Andrés says, his voice patronizing.

“I’m twenty and I can drink your old ass under the table.”

Nairobi howls at that and Andrés sends her a death glare. He redirects it at Martín, then, with some additional offense because he’s shaking with laughter as well.

“Alright,” he says. “You can switch between the parties, then.”

“Cool,” Paula says. Sergio is beaming with pride.

Martín and Andrés both lean against the desk, eyeing their little family.

“An hour and a half to get changed. My dress code is, of course, chic. I expect a classy attire, Nairobi. We’re having whiskey and wine, so it’s only right,” he says and Nairobi rolls her eyes.

“My party’s theme,” Martín whispers, smiling wickedly, “is _slutty_.”

Sergio and Bogotá both look like they’ve just been crucified.

“No,” Sergio says, desperately trying to sound stern. “No way.”

Raquel thinks both her and Paula look stunning in their respective clothes: a backless, black dress, short in the front with a flowy train in the back, and a mustard romper with a plunging neckline.

Sergio shakes his head vigorously and Paula groans as she finishes securing Raquel’s artsy bun with bobby pins.

“Bogotá is going to be the only other heterosexual man there, do you really feel threatened?” Raquel raises an eyebrow at her husband in mock disappointment.

“Besides,” Paula chimes in, pulling the final pin from in between her teeth, “the groom said _slutty_ , Sergio, and you’re looking anything but.”

“I don’t-” Sergio stammers and rubs at his temple. Her hair done, Raquel stands up and walks over to him. She takes off his jacket and unbuttons his collar.

“See?” she says. “Now you’re looking properly hot.”

“Moo _ooom_ ,” Paula rolls her eyes. “I think I’m going to spend more time with Uncle Berlín. Aunt Nairobi’s gonna be there, so that’s a win for me.”

"That's fine with me," Raquel smiles, stroking Sergio's cheek and enjoying the way it's burning under her fingers. 

Martín’s party is nothing short of a _mess._ He’s making cocktails, dressed in the tightest pair of black jeans Raquel has ever seen, and he’s blasting Iglesias, Soler and even Fonsi. He’s constantly bickering with Tokio, flirting with her poor Sergio or trying to talk Estocolmo into getting a cat instead of keeping Cincinnati around.

“He’s getting more and more like Denver, it’s fucking _crazy_ -”

“He’s right,” Bogotá chimes in, stuffing his mouth with chicken nuggets, choosing from eight different types of dips. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love both your husband and your kid, Estocolmo, but hearing Denver’s laugh in stereo is a sure way to go nuts.”

“I’m so ratting you out to Nairobi,” Estocolmo narrows her eyes, but Bogotá only licks his fingers.

“If she kills me, at least I’m going to die well-fed. Thank you for that, Palermo.”

“At your service,” Martín smirks, stretching out in his armchair. “Speaking of, _Professor_ , tonight is the last chance to take up on my offer.”

“What offer?” Raquel inquiries, watching Sergio go through the five stages of grief in approximately two seconds.

“A blowjob.”

“Thanks for caring, but I have that covered,” she retorts without blinking an eye.

“Do you now?”

Sergio clears his throat, staring off into a wall.

“She does.”

Raquel grins and moves to wrap her arms around her man. Martín sighs with disappointment. He’s about to say something else, no doubt stupid, but then they hear a loud crash coming from somewhere down the corridor.

Martín frowns.

“That sure sounds like one of the armors. Andrés is going to be so pissed.”

Estocolmo is already getting to her feet and she goes to open the door. She laughs as she takes a look down the corridor.

“That’s actually Berlín, Nairobi is wrestling him on the floor.”

“What?” Martín jumps up but Bogotá beats him to it and leans out of the door, keeping Martín at an arm’s distance.

“Baby!” Bogotá yells. “What’s going on?”

“That motherfucker tried to sneak out to snog Palermo!” Nairobi’s voice is strained, annoyed and amused in equal measures.

“ _Mi Romeo!“_ Martín swoons dramatically.

“ _Romeo_?” Tokio scoffs. “He’s just being horny.”

“Uh, _duh_?” he rolls his eyes. “Have you read the play, you illiterate?”

She looks as if she’s about to murder him, but Raquel grabs her arm and shakes her head. Tokio sits back, not too pleased.

“You’re not fucking tonight, it was your own idea and we’re gonna hold you to it,” she says.

Martín narrows his eyes at her.

“We’ll see about that.”

The rest of the night is basically all of them getting progressively more drunk and desperately trying to stop Martín and Andrés from sneaking off for a quickie.

Those two assholes can hold their alcohol very well, though, and they’re indeed very sneaky. At some point around 4 AM, they disappear.

Sergio goes into his _Professor_ mode, which is hilarious considering how drunk Raquel can see he is.

“Bogotá and Marsella, you check outside. Río and Denver, the basement, Tokio, you’re going to the monks’ quarters, it’s risky, but the enemy has no respect for anything sacred. Helsinki and Nairobi, you two can handle checking the master bedroom. Me, Lisboa, Paula and Estocolmo, we’re going to check the rest of the rooms. Paula, darling, if you hear anything suspicious, don’t risk coming in.”

Paula snorts at that, but they all take their challenge very seriously and split up, determined as ever, equipped with several walkie-talkies that Sergio’s found in his old quarters.

After maybe half an hour, Estocolmo speaks up.

“I got them.”

“Oh God, _cariño_ ,” Denver says, slurring a little. “I’m so sorry, are you okay?”

“Yes. Come to the chapel and see for yourselves,” she actually laughs and Raquel frowns at her walkie-talkie, then looks up at Sergio. He seems just as confused.

When they reach the chapel, Raquel covers her mouth with her hand to stifle a laugh.

The two old bastards are still completely dressed, passed out on the couch and snoring, Martín lying on Andrés’ chest.

“My God,” Río says, shell-shocked. “They seem almost human.”

Raquel only manages to get out of bed around 1 PM. She finds most of the team having late brunch in the courtyard, curing their hangovers with mimosas. Cincinnati is kicking around a football with Ibiza and whenever the two kids scream or laugh, Bogotá looks like he’s about to throw up.

She takes a seat next to Sergio, who’s nervously scribbling something in a notebook. Raquel raises an eyebrow at Paula, who shrugs.

“Uncle told him he’s supposed to give a speech. Uncle Helsinki, too, but he doesn’t seem to worry about it,” she explains.

“When is the wedding again?” Raquel asks, reaching for a jug of water in a desperate attempt to heal her headache.

“7 PM,” Sergio murmurs. “I only have, what, four hours? Since we need to get ready and all that. God. I hate this.”

Paula kicks him under the table.

“You've got it, man, just speak from the heart.”

Sergio stares like he doesn’t quite understand the concept.

Andrés and Martín walk out into the courtyard then, both looking a little groggy, with Andrés’ face twisted in an expression of deep discomfort.

“What happened, Berlín?” Tokio calls, smirking. “Did you pull a muscle from all the fucking?”

Andrés sends her a death glare but doesn’t retort otherwise, taking a seat between Raquel and Bogotá. Raquel turns a questioning gaze at him and he rolls his eyes.

“ _Fine_. It’s my neck. It hurts from sleeping on the couch.”

She bites back a laugh as Martín stands behind his fiancé and starts massaging his shoulders.

“You’re what, fifty-five? You shouldn’t be surprised.”

“ _Viejo_ ,” Martín offers, but his tone is extremely fond. Andrés leans back a little, closing his eyes.

“By 2 PM, I want everyone out of the yard, we have a team of people coming to turn this place into an absolute fairytale,” he says in a serious voice.

The alcohol consumed at brunch helps with the hangover, along with the constant flow of champagne supplied by a bunch of very helpful waiters roaming the monastery halls since late afternoon.

Raquel is sipping on her drink, Cuddles resting at her feet and, by some miracle, _not_ trying to tear the skin off of her ankles. She watches as Sergio is struggling with Andrés’ bowtie.

“It’s so weird not having Martín here,” the groom says, frowning slightly. Now, Raquel was never attracted to that particular asshole in any way, but even she has to admit that he looks dashing, his suit in a very specific color similar to that of slightly worn-out jeans, although it’s made of the finest wool, with a brown vest underneath, an orange bowtie and a matching pocket square.

She gets up and swats Sergio’s hands away before fixing the bowtie herself. Andrés actually smiles at her, although it seems a little forced.

“You’re nervous,” she states, looking up at him. Sergio leans against the stone windowsill.

“He’s been married five times, but never like that,” he says and Andrés glances at him before nodding.

“Aw,” Raquel smirks. “That’s adorable.”

“Say another thing,” Andrés mutters, fiddling with his cufflinks, “and there will also be a funeral.”

The courtyard looks beautiful indeed; the sun is setting, there are candles and orange marigolds _everywhere_ and the tables are almost breaking under the weight of wonderful-looking foods and drinks. Bogotá clasps his hands together at the sight.

“Get it over and done with, I’m _starving_ ,” he grins, moving away before Nairobi can stick her elbow in-between his ribs. His grin gets wider when he sees the old prior who’s supposed to be officiating the wedding.

“My God, that’s my friend right there!” Bogotá yells. “He’s still alive! Hey, _priore_ Alberto!”

The expression on the prior’s face is the most accurate representation of being dead inside that Raquel has ever seen.

Andrés is standing at the bottom of the stairs and he looks up and smiles when Martín appears at the top, wearing a slightly more casual look than Andrés - a navy suit with suspenders and an orange ribbon wrapped around the collar. He runs down the stairs and wraps his arms around Andrés. Cuddles is sitting on the last step, swinging its tail, a blue ribbon with rings attached wrapped around its neck.

For a brief, terrible moment, Raquel wonders if the orange neckties, the pocket squares and the marigolds are a way to match the cat’s ginger fur.

The ceremony itself is short, the prior speaking in latin as a choir of monks hums a melody that Raquel swears she can recognize.

Andrés and Martín are grinning at each other so much that their cheeks must be hurting. They exchange the rings and Andrés tilts his head towards their guests, smirking.

“These,” he raises Martín’s hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles; nibbles at the wedding band, his own glistening on his finger, “were of course custom made from the gold of the national reserves.”

Raquel shakes her head at that, because _of course, obviously._

 _Of course_ , she thinks again when Andrés secures an arm around Martín’s waist and dips him down for a passionate kiss, dramatic and completely over the top until it’s not anymore, because Martín is laughing into his mouth, saying: “Careful, _marido_ , don’t strain your back.”

Their first dance is barely even a dance, they just hold onto each other, swaying slightly as the choir picks up the melody from before, with one of the monks playing the piano while another one starts singing. Raquel finally recognizes the tune; it’s _Caruso_ and she leans against Sergio, feels his arms around her, the smell of his cologne filling her nostrils. She closes her eyes for a moment and simply enjoys the calm, the happiness, the presence of their little family. The music is beautiful enough to make her go a bit weak in the knees - but that’s what Sergio is for, isn’t it?

When he glances at Andrés and Martín again, Andrés is quietly singing along to the song as they press their foreheads together.

“ _Vide le luci in mezzo al mare_ _  
__Pensò alle notti là in America_.”

When the song draws to an end, the choir changes the repertoire completely; they start singing _Felicitá_ and that’s everyone’s cue to join in on the dancing. Helsinki actually picks Martín up as he hugs him, both of them laughing, while Andrés simply _falls_ into Sergio’s embrace. Before they know it, Nairobi pops open a bottle of champagne, spilling it everywhere. The first toast happens right there, in the middle of their dancing, with Nairobi yelling: “To the two absolutely worst people in the whole wide world!”

The food is indeed delicious, prepared by some chef Andrés claims to have dragged to the monastery all the way from France. The alcohol is top notch quality, too.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but this brandy,” Tokio sighs, swirling the liquor around in her glass, “is the best thing ever.”

“Why, thank you, Tokio,” Andrés says, carding his fingers through Martín’s hair. “We stole it from the Queen of England herself.”

Raquel stares. Next to her, Sergio is choking on his own sip of brandy.

“Why are you _still_ stealing, and in Europe, of all places?!” he manages, coughing.

Martín shrugs.

“It’s an art,” he says and he sounds so much like Andrés, Raquel can't quite believe it. 

“It kind of is, though,” Nairobi muses, shrugging and waving her hand, nearly poking Río in the eye with her fork. “Just like forgery.”

“Or engineering,” Andrés nods with a smirk.

“Or breaking someone’s face when they’re being a dick,” Denver adds with a grin and Estocolmo stares at him, slowly shaking her head.

“You’re lucky you’re so pretty.”

It’s not until well into the reception that Andrés stands up, whistling on his fingers to get everyone’s attention.

“My dear guests,” he says, “it is time for some speeches and toasts, I believe.”

Sergio tenses up and Raquel pats his thigh under the table.

“My best man or yours?” Andrés asks, looking down at Martín who glances at Sergio with a smirk, but then turns to Helsinki.

“Mine,” he decides and Andrés sits back down, taking a hold of his glass of wine.

“As you wish. Helsinki?”

The man nods and stands up, smoothing out the front of his red and gold suit jacket. He looks at Andrés and Martín, smiling. It still amazes Raquel just how lovely Helsinki always is; even for the two demons, it’s impossible not to like him. It’s clear in the way Andrés’ gaze softens ever so slightly and in the way Martín leans forward, chin resting on his hands, ready to listen.

“These two,” Helsinki begins, motioning towards the pair with his glass, “are the devils, I think we all agree.”

There’s a rumble of laughter all around the table at that and the two wink at each other.

“So, they deserve each other. And they deserve to be happy, too. Because when times are tough, they are good friends. To us. To each other. They are friends. Companions in life. Loyal and loving. And they won’t tell you that, but it’s more important than the _boom boom_ ,” Helsinki finishes and Martín grins at him. “ _Živeli_!”

“ _Živeli_!” everyone echoes, raising their glasses. Sergio downs his drink in two gulps. Raquel refills his glass before he stands up, clearing his throat for his own speech, pulling a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. He opens it, clears his throat, wobbles just a little.

 _Uh-oh,_ Raquel thinks.

Now. It isn’t easy to tell when Sergio is drunk. His self-control is very impressive and even intoxicated, he can speak very well and keep himself upright, even if not for very long.

He gets emotional, though.

Raquel knows it, which is why she’s not surprised when Sergio finally opens his mouth and the only thing to come out of it is a _sob_. She reaches for his hand and squeezes it as he nervously fixes his glasses, sniffling.

Andrés and Martín both look delighted _._

Sergio shakes his head and falls back into the chair.

“I hate you,” he mutters, his voice wet. “I hate you both so much.”

“Let me see if I can translate that for you,” Raquel says, stroking Sergio’s hand with her thumb. “He said that he loves you both very much, and he’s really happy to have Martín as an in-law.”

“But of course he is,” Martín drawls and walks over to wrap his arms around Sergio, who stiffens at first, but then relaxes and actually hugs him back.

“Wonderful,” Andrés grins. “Now, if you’ll allow me, I want to say a few words myself. We decided not to write vows, since most of what my dear husband had to say was extremely explicit, but as you know, I was never one to stay quiet.”

Martín looks up at him, raising his eyebrows. Andrés stands up and offers him a hand, so he goes back to him, intertwines their fingers and leans against his side.

Raquel wipes away the tears from Sergio’s cheeks before she looks at them, already worried about the idea of Andrés giving any kind of speech.

“ _Love_ ,” he begins and Martín already is looking at him with adoration; he looks back with the same intensity, “ _is impatient, love is violent. It envies, it boasts, it is proud. It dishonors others, it is self-seeking, it is easily angered, it keeps a record of wrongs_.”

Of course. Two assholes getting married, a cat from the depths of hell and now, blasphemy.

“Still,” Andrés carries on, pulling Martín’s hand to his chest, “ _it always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres._ Martín is the very definition of perseverance. While I’ve spent years looking for what I thought was love, he recognized ours immediately and held on to it.”

Martín smirks at that, standing on his tiptoes to give him a kiss. Andrés lets go of his hand to wrap an arm around his waist instead.

“Whatever you think about us is probably right,” he looks at them, smug and challenging. It seems like he’s never going to change. “We’re terrible, insufferable and wildly co-dependent. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Raquel watches as they kiss again, a little messily because both of them are grinning. She can’t help but agree - they are more than perfect for each other. They’re like one soul in two bodies.

She wonders if loving them makes her evil.

  
  



End file.
